AllFreeNovel
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At the time.
Now, the thought of that simple pearl and gold band sliding over my knuckle makes me nauseous.
Because Tad gave it to me? Or because I don’t like pearls?
Both?
They look fine on Rhonda. But Rhonda is her own creation. She follows zero fashion rules, and it doesn’t seem to matter because Rhonda only and always wears what she loves. Pearls and mom jeans—yes. A cheerleader-high pony and a blazer with shoulder pads so dense they could double as doorstops—double yes.
In a way, I admire her. Rhonda knows exactly what she likes and lives her life accordingly.
“Tillamook makes the best chocolate ice cream out there. That, some tequila, and a good RomCom should set you straight.”
“Oh. Yes.” A scant smile tilts my lips. “Thank you. I’ll look into it,” I say and turn back to my computer screen, hoping Rhonda would be on her way.
“Remember, update the status each time.”
“Will do.”
Rhonda’s chunky heels thud across the thin commercial carpet, each hollow, flatthonkgrowing softer and softer as she retreats down the aisle.
A faint spark of pain across my forearm harnesses my attention.
I glance down to find I’d been pressing on that spot without even realizing. The spot I reopened two days ago. Five little hash marks.
Five pretty little lines on my arm that help stave off the hopelessness.
It started in high school, when the pressure of extracurriculars and finals and having a social life caged me in, weighed me down like lead in my spine.
One cut.
Then two.
Then many, many more.
I thought I’d kicked the habit. Thought I was OK now.
But after ending things with Tad, stepping back into that cycle of ache and release was too easy and familiar. Its pull too great.
The last time I cut myself was two days ago. The time before that? Well, that was a week or two ago, but the time beforethat?
Ten years.
It had only been three days since I’d last lost time, and yet I found myself daydreaming about it. Wanting it to happen again, if only for the temporary relief it offered.
Much like my self-harming habit.
The ping of a new incoming claim forces me to refocus on the screen, and I will my brain to concentrate on work and not how desperately I need either the release of losing time or cutting myself to happen.
Because I know how often losing time happens. It’s like clockwork. Every Sunday for the past two months, Lily goes bye-bye.
Which is part of the reason I haven’t told anyone.
“Yes, Doctor, I lose time every Sunday at noon on the dot.”
They’ll think I’m drug seeking. Except, that’s usually for narcotics… so they probably wouldn’t think that. They might think I have that condition where people feign illness.
Munchausen something-or-other.
